by J. T. Edson
Regardless of their claim of disbelieving the stories they had heard about the prowess of Dusty Fog, they had just sufficient common sense to realize these must have some basis in fact, and had accepted one fact from the beginning. Satisfying though it would be to claim later that they had achieved their purpose in what would pass as a fair fight, they had declined to seek one. Not that any of them would have admitted openly they had no relish for the prospect of such a confrontation. Instead, they told one another he would never dare accept such a challenge no matter who made it and to issue it would result in immediate intervention by his deputies.
Therefore, with an excuse produced which was to their satisfaction, the trio had turned their attention to some other means of attaining their purpose. Without confessing the scheme had come from their employer, apart from admitting the bearded man had told him their intended victim took turn-about with the deputies at making the rounds, Todd had proposed a scheme and they were now waiting to put it into effect. It had not occurred to any of the three that a man who had so recently taken a wife, as rumor claimed to be the case with Dusty Fog, might refrain from following a routine established in his bachelor days. However, circumstances were proving this was not the case. What was more, when he did show up with reasonable clarity, the sight of him provoked comments indicative of disbelief from Hamilton and Meacher.
‘We’ll do things the way I said,’ Todd ordered, rather than suggested, being disinclined to confess to his companions that he had been no less surprised on receiving his first view of Dusty Fog. ‘Give me time to get around the back and down the alley I showed you, then come al—!’
‘We know what we’ve got to do!’ Hamilton interrupted coldly. ‘And time’s too short for us to be standing here running it by again.’
Giving a low grunt and silently promising himself he would instill a more suitable sense of respect for his leadership upon his companions when they had carried out the chore, Todd withdrew and darted as quietly as he could through the gap between the two buildings from which the observation had taken place. Giving him the time which they estimated he would require to reach his destination, still watching the figure approaching at a leisurely stroll interspersed by pauses to ensure the doors of the unlit and deserted looking buildings being passed were locked, Hamilton and Meacher made preparations for the part they were to play in their forthcoming debut into the trade of professional killers.
Two – They’re Going to Kill You!
‘Not that one!’ William “Bad Bill” Hamilton hissed, as his remaining companion took out the right side Colt 1860 Army revolver. Regardless of the disparaging comments he had uttered on numerous occasions since learning the identity of their prospective victim, he was sufficiently impressed by what he had heard earlier to be unwilling to take any unnecessary chances. ‘Use the other and, with that ’n’ being in leather, Fog’ll see it and won’t wonder why your holster’s empty.’
‘Huh huh!’ Michael “Mean Mick Meach” Meacher grunted, trying to avoid showing he was grateful for being reminded of something he had overlooked in the sense of anticipation mingled with apprehension creeping over him. Despite seeing a far less impressive figure than he had expected, he too had no illusions over the danger they would be facing if the approaching peace officer should suspect their purpose before the trap was sprung. Making the transfer and, holding the replacement in his right hand, he cocked its hammer while continuing, ‘We’ll get him easy, Willie!’
‘That we will,’ Hamilton breathed. Normally he would have protested at being addressed by the less robust sounding sobriquet of his childhood. Being just as cognizant of the situation as was his companion, and being equally aware of the possible peril involved, he refrained from objecting to being called Willie. Instead, having already armed himself in the same manner, he estimated that there would not quite have been time for Todd to arrive at the appointed position. Wanting to try and carry out the killing himself and gain the credit personally, albeit with a little unavoidable assistance from the man by his side, he went on, ‘Let’s go get it done!’
‘Sure,’ Meacher replied, ever willing to be one of the led rather than a leader.
Concealing their gun-filled right hands behind their backs, but ensuring the empty left was in plain view, the two young men stepped from their hiding place. They were ready to take whatever immediate action might prove necessary, but the intended victim did not present them with any apparent problem. Although he glanced briefly their way as they appeared, he continued to stroll forward without reducing or increasing his pace. However, just before he reached the opening from which Todd was to put in an appearance, he looked in the other direction and stepped from the sidewalk to stride quickly at an angle towards the center of the street. He acted in such a casual seeming fashion, Hamilton and Meacher assumed he did not suspect their intentions but was merely crossing to check on something he had noticed on the other side.
There was considerable justification for the surprise expressed by the two young men when first seeing Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog!
Often, in fact, even people of greater perception found difficulty in reconciling the appearance of the town marshal of Mulrooney with the considerable reputation he had acquired during and since the War Between the States!
Even aided by his high heeled tan colored boots, Dusty was no more than five foot six in height. Neatly trimmed dusty blond hair showed from beneath the wide brim of his black, low crowned, Texas style, J.B. Stetson hat. Not much beyond his early twenties, while moderately good looking, there was nothing particularly eye-catching about his tanned and clean shaven face when it was in repose. The tightly rolled scarlet silk bandana, dark green shirt—with the badge of town marshal pinned to its left breast pocket—and Levi’s pants he was wearing had been purchased recently, but he contrived to give them the appearance of being somebody else’s cast-offs and they tended to emphasize rather than detract from his small stature. Nor, despite the rig having been produced specially for him by a master craftsman, was he made more impressive by wearing a well designed brown gunbelt with twin bone-handled Colt 1860 Army Model revolvers butt forward for a cross-draw in contoured holsters. Nevertheless, if one took the trouble to look more closely, there was a strength of will and intelligence beyond the norm about his features and, although his garments tended to distract attention from it, his muscular development was that of a Hercules in miniature.
Despite having ceased to be a bachelor only a few days earlier, Dusty was performing a regular patrol of the town. However, this did not imply there was already something going wrong with his marriage to the beautiful Englishwoman, Freddie Woods, who owned the Fair Lady saloon and was mayor of Mulrooney. The marriage had been contracted mainly to avert the threat of extradition and standing trial for a crime she did not commit—although being brought to a court of law in England was inadvisable under the circumstances of her involvement with the actual killer. [7] Nevertheless, she and Dusty had already developed a liking which went beyond the respect each felt towards the other in a professional capacity. On the other hand, while having strong feelings towards the vows they had taken at the ceremony, they were realists and appreciated their respective ways of life created problems which most young couples joined in the ‘bonds of holy wedlock’ did not face.
Having been responsible to a great extent for the establishment of the town, in company with a group of businessmen she had met shortly after arriving in the United States, Freddie was determined to stay in Mulrooney until satisfied it would continue to run in accordance with the ideals she had demanded when becoming the first mayor. Therefore, to her way of thinking, leaving—for even so good a reason as marriage—was not practical, nor in keeping with her strong sense of duty.
Dusty, too, had his commitments. He had only been taken on as Town Marshal as a temporary measure until the man who was to have held the position arrived—which would be any day now. His period of service as the marshal of Mulroone
y was almost up. In fact, even though his time was being put to excellent use, he had already stayed longer than anticipated when he brought in a herd for which he was trail boss. He had been engaged, most successfully, [8] in helping Freddie to maintain law and order during the vitally important period of the town starting to carry out its intended function as a shipping point for cattle driven from Texas. However, he was overdue in returning to his various duties as segundo of the OD Connected ranch—the brand being a letter ‘O’ to which the vertical side of a ‘D’ was attached—in Rio Hondo County, Texas; along with carrying out such extra tasks as came his way as leader of the owner, his uncle, General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin’s floating outfit.
Accepting the situation, the newlyweds had had the strength of will to follow the only course each knew was open, to the other. The marriage had most definitely been consummated, during the night of the wedding and following a celebration which the invited guests at the Fair Lady Saloon would never forget. Nevertheless, they had agreed their nuptials were to remain in the nature of ‘convenience’ until such time as their respective duties would allow them to turn it into something more conventional.
That afternoon, receiving an invitation to be guest of honor at a banquet given by Steven King—an American delegate for the Railroad Commission assembled at Mulrooney to discuss the extension of a spur-line being built northwards to join an inter-continental line under construction in Canada— Freddie had been annoyed to find it was in her capacity as mayor and for herself alone. She had stated King was still feeling antagonistic towards Dusty and herself because they had not treated him with the respect he considered he deserved since his arrival, so had worded it in that fashion as a means of taking a petty revenge. On her threatening to decline, her husband had pointed out it was the kind of function to which even the senior municipal peace officer would not be invited under normal conditions. Therefore, if she refused to attend—or demanded he was permitted to accompany her—she would be playing into the New Englander’s hands. What was more, it would provide an opportunity for the faction amongst the citizens who were opposed to her, to claim either her absence was an insult to the influential visitor, or she was taking an unfair advantage of her office by insisting that Dusty came too. His absence was explained to the other guests by her saying he was taking the night watch duty with two of his deputies.
Leaving the Ysabel Kid and Waco at the office, Dusty was engaged upon what was generally no more than a routine patrol. Checking on the unoccupied business premises, he had observed the two young men coming from the alley. Studying their appearance, he had concluded they were not Texans and might be the sons of local farmers many of whom wore gunbelts. Having contrived to establish good relations with such young men since taking office, he was not worried by seeing them. Nor had a decision to avoid meeting them on the sidewalk caused him to cross the street. Noticing somebody behaving as if wishing to avoid detection in an alley at the other side, he had felt it incumbent upon himself to investigate. However, he was not permitted to satisfy his curiosity. He had reached the center of the street when he saw the pair leaving the sidewalk and coming on a converging course towards him: ‘Look out, Captain Fog!’ yelled a voice with the accent of a well educated—albeit alarmed—New Englander, coming from the alley towards which the small Texan had been making. ‘They’re going to kill you!’
Hearing the words, a sensation of alarm brought startled exclamations bursting from Hamilton and Meacher. They realized that their purpose was betrayed by somebody whose presence they had not suspected, but they took what consolation they could from the thought that they were in an excellent state of readiness to deal with the changed situation. Although they had lost the element of complete surprise, each was already holding a weapon in concealment and, therefore, more readily available for use than the holstered Colts of their victim. With that comforting unspoken assumption mutually shared, they started to bring the revolvers from behind their backs.
Until receiving the shouted warning, Dusty had seen nothing to alert him to the true state of affairs. When the pair left the sidewalk and approached, he had studied them with greater care. However, due to the way the moonlight was throwing a shadow down their left sides, he had failed to notice that only the right hand holster of their gunbelts held revolvers and, because he still thought them to be no more than farm boys, he had drawn no conclusions from the way they were keeping their right hands hidden. [9]
Nevertheless, he responded to the danger with the kind of speed for which he had already acquired considerable fame.
Before either could turn his weapon forward, Hamilton and Meacher saw the small Texan’s hands cross. Despite considering themselves to be sufficiently fast to make them suitable for their sought after employment as hired killers, never having had anybody except themselves and ‘Rocky’ Todd to help form a comparison, neither had any conception of just how swiftly a gun fighter could make a draw. They discovered there was a vast difference between their idea of what constituted speed and the kind Dusty Fog was capable of producing.
It was a lesson from which only one of the young men would be able to profit!
Swept from the contoured and carefully designed holsters, with the facility offered by their user being completely ambidextrous, the seven and a half inch ‘Civilian Pattern’ barrels of the Colt 1860 Army revolvers were brought forward at a pace neither of the young men could come close to matching. [10] With the hammers drawn back under trained thumbs and the forefingers entering the trigger-guards an instant after the muzzles no longer pointed towards his own body, [11] Dusty aimed them at waist level and by instinctive alignment. For all that, offering testimony to his skill, they roared in such close unison that the separate detonations could not be distinguished. Flying as intended, the two .44 caliber round soft lead balls each found its billet in the man at which it was directed.
Creating an even greater impact than would a conical bullet of the same dimensions, the globular chunk of lead from the right hand Colt had the effect for which it was selected. On being struck and the ball flattening as it pierced flesh and bone, Hamilton was knocked backwards before he was able to complete turning his weapon upon the intended victim. Making an involuntary pirouette which took him away from his companion, with the unfired revolver dropping unheeded from his hand, he measured his length on the wheel rutted street. With his heart torn open by the ball, he was dead by the time he arrived on the ground.
Because of the speed at which the small Texan had drawn and fired, Meacher was more fortunate and did not receive a mortal wound. In fact, by chance rather than deliberate aim, the bullet did no more than carve a furrow through the flesh of his right shoulder. However, not only was the shock of the injury sufficiently numbing to make him drop his gun, it also spun him around. Toppling over backwards, all the air was jolted from his lungs by his descent upon the rock hard surface of the street and, while momentarily stunned, he was still alive.
Having seen his companions emerging before he was at the mouth of the alley and guessing what they intended to do, ‘Rocky’ Todd felt angry. Watching how the attempt to rob him of the credit for killing Dusty Fog turned out, the emotion had changed to a sense of something close to consternation. However, he also realized that he was being offered an opportunity to complete the assignment unaided and take all the acclaim and payment for himself. Hoping his companions were both dead and would be unable to give information about him to the small Texan’s deputies, he thrust himself from his place of concealment and began to raise his Navy Colt.
‘Behind you!’ the unseen informer shouted, before the surviving member of the trio could achieve his purpose. ‘There’s another in the alley!’
Alarm flooded through Todd as he realized that he too was being betrayed by the man across the street. Nevertheless, he believed his chances were better than those of his companions. The small Texan had passed his hiding place while starting to cross the street and was now facing away from him.
With that thought in mind, he lined his weapon at Dusty’s back. However, he was prevented from firing immediately.
‘Drop that gun!’ the betrayer yelled and lunged from the mouth of the alley to run across the street.
Without waiting to find out whether the approaching man was armed, assuming this must be the case for the intervention to be made in such a fashion, Todd could not resist the impulse to make him the target. Snarling a profanity, he started to change his point of aim. As he was doing so, he realized there was a more pressing and even potentially greater menace closer at hand.
Having failed to hear the third would be attacker putting in an appearance, Dusty might have fallen victim to his gun without the warning. Accepting it as valid, the small Texan started to swing around. In spite of the speed with which he responded, he still owed his life to the indecision caused by the appearance of the man who had once again alerted him to a danger. Seeing what he was doing and concluding he formed a far more immediate peril, Todd reversed the barrel of the revolver which had been turned away. Nor was it far from its previous alignment.
Only Dusty’s superb co-ordination of mind and body saved him!
By the time the small Texan had completed his swing around in a crouching posture which made him a lesser target than if he had remained erect, he was ready to take further action. Firing his left and then the right hand Colt twice in rapid succession, he angled the bullets like the spokes of a wheel. Nor did he allow himself to be distracted by lead from the lighter calibered revolver whistling close by his head as his first shot was discharged. This and the second missed, but it was by an ever decreasing margin. The third ball just grazed the left arm of its intended target and the fourth carved a groove which broke a rib before being deflected without entering the chest cavity. Although the wound was not fatal, or even excessively serious, it proved sufficient for Dusty’s needs. What was more, it produced an effect he would have considered eminently more suitable under the circumstances in that he was presented with an opportunity of taking a prisoner to question about the reason for the attack.
